The Lord of The Rings: The seeding of Middle-earth
by Beleriand
Summary: This is an original fanfic detailing the last age of Middle-earth, and the preparations for the singing of a new world, from Arda Unmarred, to Marred, and finally Healed.
1. Chapter 1: The fate of The Blue Part I

**The seeding of Middle-earth**

 _Chapter 1 - The fate of the Blue_

On the island of Himling, or Himring as it was known in the days of old, life stirred for the first time in many ages. It was a lesser island now, the smallest of the Western Isles, lying in the northern parts of the Belegaer sea, about twenty-five miles off the coast of northern Lindon, Forlindorn. Once however, during the First Age, it was a hill in the northeast of Beleriand, the land swallowed by the sea in the War of Wrath, and atop of which the fortress of Maedhros was built, whom was eldest of the Sons of Fëanor. Few now remembered its history, and little did there remain on the island to suggest any of it. Such is the fate of the places in the world; for memories linger no more than the folk who hold them, and even the wisest cannot safekeep them all. However, there are those who live beyond the veil of this world, yet eternally bound to it, whom shall remember it all in the end. Thus it was that two elves from beyond the sea came ashore on the island of Himling.

"It is good to feel solid ground beneath my feet again, pîn tol vea." said Amothor, as he stepped on the island, and dragged their small boat onto the beach, taking care not to get his acorn-colored robes wet. Their journey had taken many days, and the feeling of waves lingered in his step still. "Then look to the east, Amothor-dil" replied Thárion, patting him on the back, "until you are weary with thoughts of walking." The two elves smiled at one another, and then they stood looking for a while, as if on a hill, studying the north-west coast of Middle-earth. Gradually their smiles lessened, for their elven eyes saw much, even in the light of evening. It seemed to them that Ered Luin had lost much of its beauty, its many majestic peaks worn down with time, and the grass and trees at its roots had withered with the ages. "I almost wish to turn back already," said Amothor, "but I dare not. Dû tôl, and the sea grows restless." The other elf nodded in sympathy, and they continued on foot, but made no imprint in the grass.

From the folds of his robe, colored in the like of a spring bud, Thárion produced a small wooden locket. On its front was painted a circle in striking orange, an image of the sun. He took a deep breath, then opened the locket, and inside lay seven pearly, white seeds. He took one of them out and carefully planted it in the soil, in the middle of Himling. "Losta gwain eredh," Amothor then whispered, "mennai i anor calëa angail," and they joined hands in song, singing of things far away, in the ancient tongue of the Eldarin. When they finished, the island seemed more joyful than before, teeming with unseen life. "We must go now," said Thárion, "for still there is much to be done, and we shall not have the time to see the fruits of our labours." The two elves walked back to their boat, and they pushed it out, and the winds and currents carried them away, and at the break of dawn, they came ashore north of Forlindorn.

The longing cries of the seagulls greeted them on the shore, and the two elves sensed the many spirits of the land, old and diminished though they were. Heavy were the elves' heart then, for it had been a long time since they last walked on Middle-Earth. Old memories stirred in their minds, images of ages past, in stark contrast to the world as they saw it now. "So much is different," Thárion muttered, "I barely recognize any of it." Amothor turned to him, eyes shining with the light of the elves. "This stretch," he said solemnly, "is all that remains of Beleriand. I recall some of it now, though the memories are faint still, even the fortress on Himring, and the stone at Tol Morwen, and Taur-nu-Fuin, all of which we just passed!" They shook their heads in dismay, and they stayed on the beach, unmoving like trees, for fear another step would bring more memories back to them.

Before long their thoughts were interrupted however, for they saw shapes coming down from the forests near the mountainside: two eldery men clad in greying sea-blue robes, wearing pointed hats, and leaning on pale, wooden staffs, with long, white beards. "Mae Govannen," one of the old men hailed them, as did the other: "Elen síla lúmena vomentienguo!" Their voices were deep, carrying wisdom, and friendship. "Greetings," answered the elf clad in green, "I am Thárion, Son of Stiff Grass, and at my side," he pointed to his friend in brown, "is Amothor, Brother of Hill." The two elves bowed deeply then, for they sensed they were in the presence of honorable folk. "And we have many names," replied the younger-looking of the men, "for many ages have we walked in Middle-Earth, and many deeds have we undertaken." Then they gave stiff bows, for their backs were old and aching. After exchanging further greetings, the blue figures offered the elves to join them for a hearty meal, at their house hidden in the nearby forest, by the western walls of Ered Luin.

It was but a short walk to their destination, though the path was twisted and confusing, ending abruptly in a clearing. A large wooden house stood there, crooked and mis-shapen, with what could be three floors, ending in a small tower. It looked as if it had grown out of two trees, with roots stretching and spiralling to form a water wheel on the south side, where a lively river ran, pushing the wheel to turn slowly. In the field of grass surrounding the house were flat stones pressed in the ground, with strange writings on them, encircling the house.

The old men crossed the stones without worry, but the elves hesitated. "Do not fear this circle," said the older-looking man then, "no harm shall come to you inside." The elves studied the men for a while, and sensing no lie, they crossed the barrier. At once they felt isolated from Middle-earth, as if they had crossed a barrier to another realm entirely. "What is this sorcery," said Thárion, now wary of the men. "Who are you?"

The old men smiled and stroked their beards. "We are the Istari", they said, "and long have we waited your arrival."


	2. Chapter 1: The Fate of The Blue Part II

After the wizards had revealed themselves, they gave their names. "I am Alatar, meaning after-comer," said the oldest of the two, "though in the south I was known as Morinetahr, nectar of hope." He then gave a nod, taking off his hat. His hair was a long and tangled mess of white and grey. "I am Pallando," said the other, "but in the east I went by Rómestámo, helper of the east." Pallando took off his hat as well, revealing shorter hair, still white and grey, but well kept.

"Now you simply must join us for that meal," said Alatar, "for elves cannot live on starlight and poetry alone!" The wizards winked at one another. "That much is true," replied Thárion, "but words may feed what bread and water can not." Amothor nodded in agreement. "What do you mean?" Asked Pallando. "He means the spirit," said Alatar, before the elves could reply. Pallando raised an eyebrow. "If your spirit hungers so," he said, "then we have many books inside." With that, the discussion ended, and they all went back to the house.

The first floor was a wonderous sight, filled with many sweet and tingling scents of herbs and potions, and furnished with chairs, and tables, and lamps, and many paintings, books, strange instruments, objects and artifacts from many ages. It was layed out into three rooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a storeroom. On one shelf in the living room lay the Red Book of Westmarch, the one written by Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, and finished by Samwise Gamgee. Next to it was a five-part series of the history of Middle-earth, from left to right: Ainulindalë, Valaquenta, Quenta Silmarillion, Akallabêth, and finally, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age. After this followed the book of the Fourth Age. It was black, and on its cover was the white tree of Gondor. At the right-most end of the shelf, after many books in many colors, lay a grey, unadorned book. Amothor took the grey book down from the shelf and opened it. To his surprise, all of its pages were blank.

"What point is there in keeping blank pages?" Muttered Amothor, then put the book back. "The point is to write in it," said Alatar, catching the elf unaware, "and in history it is custom to write of things that have happened, rather than what is to come." Then Amothor became wide-eyed, for he saw plates and cups and cutleries were floating in the air to pass by him, apparently following Alatar's many gestures and mumbles, until one by one, they landed neatly on the dinner table by the fire.

Thráion did not notice the flying dinner set. He was preoccupied with a lamp in one of the passages joining the three rooms. There was something odd about it. It gave off a soft, yellow light, yet there was no fire and no smell. It seemed to him that light itself had been trapped inside the clear glass of the lamp, shaped like that of bulb. Pallando, having noticed the elf's interest, explained too him what it was. "A late dwarven invention," he said, "wherein light is produced by heating a thin, coiled metal wire, which is trapped behind that glass, and is filled with gasses distilled from the depths of the mountains. It actually draws strength from the whater wheel outside." Thráion gawked at it. "Made by the dwarfs, you say?" He asked, in disbelief. Pallando smirked, and then beckoned them all to join at the dinner table for a hearty meal.

When the day grew late, the living room was filled with a beautiful golden red colour from the window, where the sun glittered in the Great Sea to the west, and the seagulls cried longingly. It was a beautiful sight, and it almost made the elves forget the sadness they had felt when they came ashore north of Forlindorn. Then they saw a shadow in that sparkling water. It was a small boat, and as far as their elven eyes could tell, much like the one they themselves had arrived in. The told the wizards what they saw.

"Ah," said Alatar, looking mighty comfortable in his chair, and patting on his pipe. "It seems the last of you are finally here." Amothor and Thráion looked perplexed. "There are more of us coming?" Asked Thráion, and the wizards nodded. Pallando pointed with his mug to the sea. "Two more shall come", he said, "and they shall carry the water, as you carried the seeds." He finished his mug and rose from his chair, taking care not to hurt his back. "Since you appear to have grown into your chair, Alatar, I suppose I will go and fetch them," the wizard said, "but I trust you will ready the table for our new guests?" Alatar nodded in response, coughing into his pipe.

"You knew of the seeds?" Asked Thráion then. "Yes," answered Alatar. "For that is the final task given to us by the Valar: to guide you through the ending of the last age of Middle-earth, and see to it that the seeds of Eä are planted and watered, so that the world can be healed and made new again." Slowly, it dawned on the two elves what this meant. "The last age," whispered Amothor, and tears welled in his eyes. "Indeed it is," said Alatar, "with the exception of Aiwendil the brown, only spirits and animals roam these lands now." Thráion grew silent. "Do not despair, dear elves," said Alatar, studying their faces. His voice was soft and filled with empathy as he spoke. "Much that once was may now be lost, yet that which was marred shall become healed, and that which was unmarred shall become even more beautiful."


	3. Chapter 1: The Fate of The Blue Part III

A few hours later, Pallando arrived with the new guests. Their fair voices were high with excitement, for they too had not known there would be others of their kind in Middle-earth. When they entered the living room, however, what greeted them was a solemn sight. The two others of their kind sat with eyes closed, with hands covering their faces. Alatar sat in his chair, in silence, staring distantly into the fire. It was dark and cold outside, but even though the curtains were drawn and the fire was lively, it seemed to them that the warmth of the room was gone.

"You never were good at keeping guests," began Pallando, "but this must be a new record, even for you." Alatar merely snorted. "Well, let us see how you fare with these two," said Pallando sternly. The new guests stepped forward then, and presented themselves in front of Alatar. "I am Síriel, daughter of river," said the left one, a beautiful elf woman with silver hair, and blue eyes, "elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo!" Then she curtsied, and showed him a waterskin with an image of the sun woven on it, much like on the wooden locket Thárion carried. Alatar nodded and looked to the other guest, also an elf woman. "I am Ianthel, sister of Bridge," she said, and gave curtsy as well. She was beautiful too, but of a different kind, with golden hair and green eyes. "Did you tell them in what age they have come?" Asked Alatar of Pallando, "Did you tell them the task ahead?" Pallando nodded. "Yes," he answered, "and I take it you explained to Thárion and Amothar, though they seem to have taken the news less heartily." Alatar coughed, then rose from his chair. "I will miss this chair," he mumbled, before focusing his thoughts. "Go now Siriel and Ianthel," said Alatar, "eat and drink and be merry. Hearten your brethren and give them courage, for tomorrow we must set out on a long journey, and we shall not return to this house, ever again." The elves greeted one another then, singing songs and talking until the morning.

The morning after, the party of six found themselves standing outside the doorstep, with many bags and sacks. Without warning, Alatar and Pallando both whistled, and the sound echoed and carried far into the lands, and soon, eight horses appeared in front of the horse. "These are friends of Aiwendil," said Alatar. "He left them in our care, so to speak. We will ride one each, and the remaining two shall be pack horses. Our journey is long, and so we bring with us much in the way of provisions, though supplement with hunting and gathering we must." Thráion and Amothar were in much better mood now, having found comfort in the songs of the women. They sat out then, trotting slowly, first down from the clearing. When they passed the encircling warding stones, as Pallando had explained, the old age of the world weighed on their shoulders again, and the elves grimaced, but did not lose courage. Coming out of the forest, they changed direction. The party continued north, with the trees on the eastern wall of the Blue Mountains to their right, and the long shores of the Great Sea to their left.

During the first days of journey, the wizards explained some of what they had done on Middle-earth, before retiring to their house as mere observers and consultants. In the east and south they had fought hard against the influence of Sauron. Where they could, they had stirred rebellion, and elsewhere they had given hope to those still faithful, who lived under the light, and not as willing slaves to the shadow.

Pallando had taken the mantle of a leader, amassing armies and resistance, drawing upon the strength of the old blood of the Edain, who had first awoken long ago in the lands of Hildórien, far to the east. In the end, the easterlings of Sauron proved too powerful for the faithful, and so Pallando decided to retreat, focusing on rebuilding the lands of Hildórien, and doing what he could for those willing to start anew there. "The words Morgoth spoke when he first visited the Men of Hildórien stayed in their hearts ever after. A trait, and not a punishment, we are told. Yet, but for the Gift of Men, I do not see it. Perhaps light cannot exist without darkness." He finished his tale in deep thought.

Alatar had worked more in secret, trying instead to disrupt the enemy's supply lines of food and slaves from the south and into Mordor. He was greatly successful in this, and like Pallando, he managed to thin Mordors armies, by disrupting the operations of the easterlings. However, the lands were festering with dark plagues and diseases, and in trying to find a cure for them, he was unable to gather strength and march on the City of Corsairs and Umbar. He did find a cure, though, brewed from a rare type of nectar. It came from a beautiful golden flower, growing on the southernmost tip of Middle-earth, where the great lamp Ormal had once stood, in ancient days.

After two days of travelling north there were no more trees, and the terrain was less lively. Grass gave away to dirt, and soon specks of snow and ice covered the ground. Before long they were travelling in light snow, and the weather grew colder with every step they took. Finally, they were north of the mountain entirely, where they changed direction again. Now they went east, following the shoreline, and after three days they came upon the great Icebay of Forochel. There stood a great crumbled tower. "What is this fallen tower?" Asked Siriel. "I do not remember it." The other elves murmured agreement. "Is it some remnant of Utumno?" Asked Thráion. The wizards shook their heads. "This was a lighthouse," said Pallando. "It was gifted to the men in the north by the dwarfs of the Blue Mountain, long ago, in the Fifth Age, I believe." Alatar strode closer with his horse, studying the ruins. "Many lives it saved," he said, touching the cold stone, "the light it shone helped fishers navigate these treacherous coasts. Now it remains dark." The elves sang then, of the lighthouse Calmindon, which was destroyed long ago along with the rest of Numénor. Afterwards, the wizards pointed south, and they journeyed onwards.

The days came and went, and the terrain gradually gave way to grass and forests again. However, it did not look green and lively to the elves' eyes. Rather, the scenery seemed grey and withered, almost dead. So it was that the party came upon the remains of Emyin Uail, the once great hills of Evendim. Here the Men of Numénor first returned in the Second Age, to find them already populated by the Edain, The Fathers of Men. In the Third Age it was part of the Kingdom of Arthedain, but near the end of the Fourth Age, the hills had been destroyed. "What happened here?" Asked Amothor. "There is something foul about these broken hills." Alatar stroked his beard for a while, then turn to them all and began speaking.

"In the Fourth Age a dark cult rose to power. An unfortunate union of misguided fools, who worshipped the name of Morgoth. At their height, they took over these lands, and from the lowest depths in hiding, they summoned forth a terrible demon of the old world: a Balrog." The elves were shocked at this. "I and Pallando," Alatar continued, nodding in the direction of the other wizard, "fought with it for many days. Nearly did it take both our lives, like the one who slayed Olórin. We could not afford to die, however, for such grace as to return to this world we were not given. Here, on the hills of Evendim, we smote its ruin upon the jagged rocks. Yet in many ways it had already won, for its foul blood poisoned these lands, and rotted the hills. Many men died before the cult was disbanded, and its leader made justice upon. A new shadow, indeed." The elves grew silent. "Come now," said Pallando after a while. "We are almost at Nenuial, Lake Evendim. There you will plant another seed."


	4. Chapter 2: The Black Lake Part I

**The seeding of Middle-earth**

 _Chapter 2: The Black Lake (updated)_

Long before they reached Lake Evendim, the elves began covering their noses. There was a foul smell in the air. The elf women sensed it first, a slight tinge of rot. Then as they drew nearer the lake, the scent became abhorrent, almost unbearable. In a forest of dead trees, where the ground was muddy and rotten, the elves refused to go further.

"I will not go another step," cried Síriel, hands beneath her breasts. "It's unbearable," agreed Ianthel, "sin thaur ceveni". Thárion and Amothor went to their kindred, trying to convice them to continue, but their words fell on deaf ears. The wizards went ahead to scout, and soon they returned. "Come," said Pallando, "this is no time to tarry." He gestured them to follow, and they rode southwest. As they came out of the forest, they saw it. "Behold," said Alatar, "the Lake of Evendim." He pointed with his staff to a large, black body of water. It looked almost like solid tar, and all around it, the ground was rotten and putrid. The elves averted their eyes, cursing their sight.

The lake still retained some of its shape, almost like that of a star. A black star. All around it there was no life to see, except insects, and it was clear now that the smell came from the lake. Alatar and Pallando then whispered to each other fiercely, and to the elves it looked like they were fighting with words. After a while, they appeared to reach some conclusion. "I believe we know now what has happened here," said Alatar solemnly. "Since Nenuial was song forth, a Water Spirit has dwelt here, the embodiment of the lake itself." Pallando pulled out a book from one of the bags on his horse. He flipped through the pages, and then showed them an image of a twirling mass of water, with hands and eyes of starlight. "This is the spirit of Nenuial," he said. "It supplied the men in the hills with fresh water all its long lived life. For a time, it was worshipped by them."

"All worship comes with a price however," said Alatar sternly. "The spirit grew arrogant." Pallando nodded and stroked his beard. "When we vanquised the Balrog," continued Alatar, "its spirit fled deep into the bowels of the earth, near the roots. There it festered like a wound, drawing upon the life of the very earth, far beyond our reach. Sooner or later, it must have noticed the spirit of the lake." The wizards whispered some more to each other before they spoke again. "It is likely that the Balrog made a deal with the water spirit," said Alatar finally, "offering it a way to draw power through worship." Pallando went back to his horse. "Could be it remembered those days fondly," said Pallando, while putting the book back, "and in its arrogance, it agreed to deal with the Balrog, and the evil spirit overpowered it, and consumed it." The wizards shook their heads in dismay. "We must attempt to cleanse it now, banish it, before the seed can be planted. I am afraid there is nothing that can be done for the Water Spirit."

A fire was kindled in the hearts of the elves then, and they all stepped down from their horses. "Take with you the water of Eä, Síril and Ianthel," said Alatar, he and Pallando leading them towards the lake. "Hold it to the light of the sun as you pray," cried Pallando. "Sing of light and pure water, as only the First Children can!"

When they came to the edge of the lake, their noses were burning with the smell. The elf women began singing, and raised the waterskin to the sky. Then it turned like glass, and the water within became visible. Like liquid crystal it shone, and all the colors in the world sprang forth, and it pierced through the rot and death of the lake like the light of the Silmarils. The elf men join in song as well, and the wizards began chanting ancient words of power.

However, the sky darkened, and soon the light died out, and the waterskin turned to normal. The weather became twilight, and the lake started bubbling. Gases rose from it like a thick fog, and it strangled the elves. Their song rapidly died out, and they collapsed on the ground, struggling to breathe. However, the wizards chanted, higher and deeper, and the words made the very earth quake with power. Then the lake erupted, black tar spewing forth, and wave of force pushed all six of them back. The fog dissipated, but the elves had fallen unconscious. A great, rumbling voice spoke then, from somewhere deep in the lake.

"Who comes to disturb my rest?" It asked, in the old corrupted form of Eldarin, once spoken by Morgoth. Alatar and Pallando rose to their feet, breathing heavily and leaving on their staffs. "I come," said Alatar, weakly at first, but then his voice found hidden strength. "I come, Alatar The Blue, Nectar of The South, and Guider of Seeds. I come to banish thee from these lands!" Pallando shouted too: "I come, Pallando The Blue, Helper of The East, and Guider of Water. Begone with you, foul spirit!" The voice turned silent for a while. Then the lake erupted again, more violent this time. "Your names and deeds are nothing!" It shouted. "The last age is ending, and so my master shall escape through the Door of Night. He shall find his soldiers strong, and the world shall be his throne!" Then the voice gave into a maniacal laugh, and the tar bubbled violently, spewing forth gases that lit on fire in the unnatural darkness that surrounded them. Suddenly, in the center of the lake, black liquid shot into the air, pulsing with dark fire, and it took the form of an mangled human, the lower body disappearing in the darkness of the lake. In the blink of an eye, great hands spewed forwards like fire from the shape, reaching for the helpless elves.

Alatar and Pallando then raised their staffs quickly, pointing them towards the black shape. They shouted in the language of the Valar, and two glittering beams of light erupted from the tips of their staffs , piercing the darkness. The beams spiralled inwards together, joining into one, and then crashed into the putried flesh of the Balrog's new body. It exploded like a volcano of white fire, and the voice screamed in agony, and its arms withered and fell to the ground before reaching the elves, reduced to harmless black puddles. While the black spirit licked its wounds, Pallando and Alatar woke the elves, and got them back on their feet.

"Hurry," said Alatar, his voice strained with effort, "we must get out of here." The elves struggled to get back on their feet. "I'm afraid this foe is beyond us," whispered Pallando, "already it is reforming its body." With every passing second, the darkness around them grew thicker. The voice began to cackle, and they saw shadowy mists twirling and stretching in the darkness. The elves did not retreat, however, and they sang their song once more. "Fools!" Cried Alatar, and turned again to face the darkness. There was no sun nor stars in the sky now, and the waterskin did not turn to glass as before. The wizards chanted along with the elves, and their staffs glowed and the light clawed away the darkness. However, that was all they accomplished. "Begone!" Screamed the voice, and the six of them were thrown back, flying about through twigs and mud, and fell unconscious.


	5. Chapter 2: The Black Lake Part II

When they woke, hours later, the weather was back to normal. It was late in the day and the sky was a mellow golden red color, yet its rays felt cold, and they could see in the distance the lake was shrouded in black mist. It looked as if light could not reach that place anymore, somehow beyond it. They gathered what they had lost in the blast, and looked for the horses. Unfortunately, the animals where nowhere to be seen. The wizards looked to the elves then, with weary eyes and apologetic faces. "It seems we have failed you," said Alatar softly, "soon now the seed meant for this place will wither." Pallando took of his hat and sat down cross-legged. He layed the staff across his lap, and closed his eyes. "With no horses to carry us," whispered Pallando, "the road will be longer still." Then he said no more for a long time. The elves joined Pallando, and soon all six of them sat in a circle, kneading their troubled thoughts, trying hard not to look at the misty lake.

Finally, Pallando opened his mouth to speak, but he was interruped by the distant cry of a bird. This was the first they had heard of animals in a long time. "Luinaew," whispered Síriel, and looked up in the sky. They all saw it then, a bluejay flying past them, straight as an arrow towards the east. "What does it mean?" Wondered Thárion aloud. "Should we face the corrupted spirit again?" Asked Amothor. "No," answered Ianthel harshly, "it will be the death of us." The wizards nodded, though it pained them to admit it was true. When the bird went past their sight they fell into silence once more. Then Pallando recalled his thoughts, "I was just about to speak of one who lives in the east," mumbled Pallando, "but now I am certain."

The younger wizard drew his breath sharply. "We must go and see Aiwendil the brown," he said, "he may yet be found in Mirkwood, and since he took it upon himself to protect the wilderness, which he clearly has not done, I believe it is time to pay him a visit. We need council from him, the last lord of beasts and trees." To the elves this sounded reasonable, but Alatar disagreed. "It is true we are clad in blue, Istari-dil," he began, "and the bluejay did fly to the east, where Mirkwood surely lies, far away. However, such an obvious sign may be the trick of our enemy, to draw us away from this place, or other places. Do not forget what happend on Almaren, long ago. The shadow is always behind you."

The wizards looked at eachother fiercely then. There was no love in their eyes, and the elves got a sense that something dark had happened between them in the past. "I see no other course of action," said Pallando sternly, straigthening up and towering over Alatar. "If this sign was indeed a trick of the enemy, then an even greater trick would be to put us against each other. Do not bring the past up so lightly, old friend." The fierce look in Alatar's eyes softened, and after a tense moment, he smiled. "You are right, of course," he said. "The eldest can be stubborn, and so the youth is needed. However, there is another we might seek as well, and the road is much shorter." Pallando raised an eyebrow, and the elves waited patiently for an explanation.

"Fornost Erain was rebuilt in the Fourth Age," Pallando agreed slowly, "and the lands past are most peaceful in memory. It may be the road south is safe, though the place did not earn its name 'Deadmen's Pike' lightly, for there is where the Witch-King of Angmar was felled, in the Third Age, and evil men once dwelled." Thráion and Amothor looked at each other then, confusion in their eyes. "I thought you said there was only us and Aiwendil left in this world," they said, "of whom do you speak that lives in the south?" The wizards did not answer immediately. "We did not utter lies," said Alatar softly, and shook his head, "for it is a spirit we speak of, not a man, nor a wizard." They pondered their choices for a while. In the end, the wizards could not decide whether to follow the bluejay, or take the much shorter road south.

A wind blew then, from the west. It was fresh and cool, with a hint of sea in the smell. "Two signs," said Pallando victoriously, holding fingers up. "Or mere happenstance," argued Alatar, taking them down. They began fighting with words again. The elves grew tired of their bickering, and realized the wizards would never agree on their own. "We will flip a coin," said Síril finally, "and through it, let the Valar decide. Heads, and we march east, towards the brown, as you say. Tails, and we go south, to this spirit of yours." She took out an old golden coin she had taken with her from the wizard's house, for when she saw it, she felt she would have need of it. The elves nodded and appraised the wisdom of their kindred sister. She let Ianthel flip the coin, and they watched in silence and expectance for the coin to land. It landed on its edge. "Ever the Valar speak in riddles," laughed Alatar, and they all laughed with him, and the mood between them improved greatly.

"But it is another sign," said Pallando, stroking his beard. "The Valar speak wisdom, if indeed it was they who spoke through the coin. We should split up then, three to the east, and three to the south." Alatar nodded. They parted in good mood, and agreed to meet again on Amon Sûl, Wheathertop, once their business was finished. Síriel and Thráion went with Alatar to the south, while Amothor and Ianthel went with Pallando to the east. They split the six seeds among them, though already one of them had darkened slightly in color, and they feared it would crack open like an eggshell, if they could not banish the Balrog's strengthened spirit from the Lake of Evendim soon.

Alatar and company went south then, staying clear of the dark and misty lake. When the elves first saw the harrowed remains of Annúminas, once mighty capital of the Kingdom of Arnor, the wizard decided to travel there first."King Elessar rebuilt this place in the Fourth Age," he said to the elves, while searching for something amongst the rubble and stones, "and he dwelt their often, and so too did his child Eldarion, for it was a fair capital after the rebuilding, shining with the splendour of the dwarf's craftsmanship." The elves listened to his stories, though often did the wizard stop and stroke his beard, apparently forgetting or misremembering much, as he corrected his words often. To them it was hard to believe the stories, or at least imagine them, for there was not much but a few broken walls and stone formations in the tall, stiff grass.

"What do you seek here, Alatar?" Asked Thráion of Alatar. The wizard sighed. "You, who is son of grass," he answered, "not unlike what is here, do you see anything peculiar?" The elf gave Alatar a strange look, then took off his green robe and let it fall into the grass. At once it disappeared before their eyes, as if it became grass itself. "Many things lie hidden in the fields of green," said the elf thoughtfully, "and easy it is to hide them." Síriel nodded, as if this made sense to her. "And the river carries away that which the grass does not shelter," she said, and the two elves smiled at each other warmly. Alatar raised an eyebrow and waved his hands disapprovingly.

"This is not the time for the games of elfs," he said sternly. "There should be a dungeon here, according to old lore, where the kings put away many treasures. I am looking for one object in particular, a seeing stone, a Palantír. We have recovered one, you may have seen it in our house before we left, but that one is useless. It is marred and showing only madness, like that of its old owner. However, the one I seek should still be of use to us. I fear now that we will need it, for there is much we have not seen from our home while we waited out the ages." The wizard sat down and leaned by a stone. "All this time we had," he whispered, "and yet we didn't prepare properly, for we felt too weary, and happily blamed old age." The elves eyed him with sympathy, and they helped him search for some opening the ground, hidden in the grass. When the sun gave away to the darkness, and the only light was that of the stars and the shining staff of Alatar, they gave up their search, and decided to continue southwards.


	6. Chapter 3: Oldest and Fatherless

**The seeding of Middle-earth**

 _Chapter 3: Oldest and Fatherless_

Unbeknownst to the party heading south, Pallando, Ianthel and Amothor had found their missing horses when they reached the end of the North Downs. The poor animals were scarred and disheartened, but the whispers of the elfs soon put them to rest. At least, six of them. The poor packing horses had seen enough, and they were let go, and died shortly after of weariness. The elfs moved the sacks and bags over to the unused horses, and rode the others, with the riderless horses following, and with the fresh west wind in their backs. The wizard and the elves crossed the realm of Andor with speed, heading for Rivendell. The two elves with Pallando were excited to see a city of their kindred on Middle-earth, and sang heartily while they rode.

On the same day the horses had been found, Alatar, Thráion, and Síriel began their journey eastwards, out from the nestling, broken hills where Annúminas had once been, and straight towards Fornost, and the southern road to Bree. They travelled quickly, as hastely as Alatar's old legs could manage at least, and reached the ruins of Fornost on the south tip of the North downs. When they arrived, Alatar spent some time with the elves to search for dungeons and treasure holds again, in case the missing Palantír had been hidden away there instead. There was naught but rubble and ruin in this place as well, and the elves were beginning to feel the age of the world in truth.

"It has been bothering me for some time now," said Thráion, "but the way you tell the stories Alatar, the later ages seem to have merged together, to form a continuous and long stretch of time, not known of since before the First Age. Yet, clearly there has been a finite passage of years here, for still there remains clues, though most places are forgotten entirely, and your memory wanes. You say we are in the last age, but what age is that?" Alatar stopped his search and looked around him, into distant lands. The fresh west wind was barely felt here, and there was little movement in anything, as if the clock of Fornost had stopped ticking.

"The ninth, I think," the wizard said after a long while. "We built our house at the end of the sixth age, and for how many years we lingered there and in the forests by the blue mountain, I cannot say with surety. I agree, that the Ages which seemed at first to shorten, became long once again, and began to blend. We have suspected this was the case for some time. Yet, we know little of the seventh age, or of the eight or the ninth. Alas, it is also such that our memories of the Fourth and Fifth and Sixth Ages are fading rapidly. The dwarvish inventions we had in our house were from the Fifth Age, at least that much we recall, for they were wonderous indeed. They invented many more things in the sixth, but even before then we had grown weary of Middle-earth, and wished to retreat beyond the Great Sea. The Valar barred our passage again however, and Círdan The Shipwright had left. A voice spoke to us from the sea then, telling us to wait until the end, when the time for renewal was to come. We cried out to it, saying we had fought in The War of The Ring, that the great enemy was vanquised. We begged it to go home, explaining to it how we had done what our powers allowed us to do against the evil that remained in the roots and dark corners of the world, for that was the second task we were given, to stay the hand of the corrupted Maiar, the quest given when we tried to leave after the War of the Ring. The voice beyond the sea did not answer then, but we knew in our hearts we had not failed our tasks completely, only, we had not done them satisfactorily, or perhaps this was our fate all along."

The elves looked at Alatar for a long time then. Were the wizards failures? They wondered, or was their success too meager for the Valars? They tried to remember the time they had spent in Valinor after they had left Middle-earth, but all that came to them were feelings and scents, images and sounds, but not words, nor faces. "Now, at the end of all things, is it for the hope of redemption in the Valars eyes you follow their tasks still?" Asked Síril, and the boldness of her question surprised Thráion, but her tone was honest, not hurtful. Alatar stared at her, like an old man looks at a bothersome child. "No," he said briskly. "We do what we can because we must; since there are no others who would do it for us. Of course, the will and grace of the Valar is beyond us, but do not look at us like haunted old men, we are but weary, and old, so very, very old." They searched in silence for a time then, but there was no sign of the Palantír. Again the day grew late, but they decided against resting on Fornost. The elves were not tired, unlike the wizard. They found the road to Bree, and the wizard sat down and rested, his robes pulled around him, and they stared at the open sky, the stars twinkling.

The wizard's rest was interrupted by more questions, however. "Where did all the men, dwarfs and halflings go? What about the Onodrim?" Asked Síldir, and this time Thráion did not object to the question, for he too wondered greatly about this. There was a long time before any answer came. "The races died out," said Alatar finally. "All mortal races were doomed to die. Some members passed beyond the veil of this world, in truth beyond the song of creation, and their fates remain unknown to us, and to all of the Valar I should think, except The One. Others are in the Halls of Mandos, in waiting, for whatever task is needed of them before the very end, or perhaps after it. There are many songs about the end, I would not believe all of them, for old words are easily misinterpreted. Yet, there is little of how the end was reached. Whether it was from weariness, sickness, or war and destruction, that all the speaking races died out, I cannot say. What I can say is that we have spent many years asking questions of the stars, Pallando and I, and never have we discerned anything useful, except to know of your coming, perhaps. The grey book in our shelf is empty." The elves nodded thoughtfully, apparently satisfied with such a vague answer, but still pondering the details for themselves.

¨"You have indeed done much, and seen much, Istari-dil," said Thraíon, looking at the old stars. "I do not know why this was your fate, to stay behind on Middle-earth, for it seems to torment you in truth, but I am glad it was you, somehow. I could think of no other to be at my side and be the Guider of Seeds, for only you still bear regret, hope, and all the emotions of unfinished business in this world, and the will to see it all to the end, even as you fade away, unlike so many of my kindred." Síldir looked a bit annoyed at Thráion for saying the last part, but at the end she smiled agreement. The elves felt as weary of the world as the wizard already, yet they had rested far longer than him, and spent little time in Middle-earth in comparison, at least that is what they believed. "I name you Pelin Sairweg" said Síldir then, "in old Noldorin words, the Fading Sage, and it seems Alatar, the after-comer, is most fitting as well, for perhaps you will be the last to return to Valinor." The wizard smiled at them, thankful, and then sleep took him. The elves watched over him, and they grew in fondness for him that night.

Before nightfall the next day, they had reached Bree, or what was once known as Bree. There were many clues in the terrain regarding its fate, and it seemed it had grown a large and wonderous city in its time. Hidden in some wild weeds by a river, Síldir found the remnants of an old signpost, 'PRA ... NY' where the letters she could make out. "Do you know what this is?" She asked the wizard. "What a find," he answered, and he took the old, broken signpost from her hands. "A last memory of the Prancing Pony." He smiled and laughed, his eyes gleaming. "Strange it is," said Thráion, "that some things survive the passage of time so... coveniently." The wizard turned and faced him. "Actually," he said, and his laughter and smile died out, "that is something I've been meaning to discuss with the two of you." The elves sat down, to listen to the old wizard's thoughts and tales.

"Remember when I mentioned the Ages were blending together, towards the end?" He said, and the elves nodded. "Well, I meant that quite literally," he continued. "Some things we have noticed from our house, and what little we ventured out from there. Time itself is dying out in Middle-earth, vanishing. All the clocks are stopping. When there is no keeping track of time, the world grows confused, and remnants and ghosts of things that were distant in time may appear together, as if the passage of the years between them was naught. This is why we can still follow the old maps, and see the old things, I believe. It is good you pointed this out too me now, for it reminds me that we must make haste. The seeds must be planted before time runs out, and we must hurry now that the one seed does not shatter." Thráion looked at the three seeds he had taken with him when the party split in two. One of them was darker than the others, and it seemed a bit darker now that he looked it again. They left Bree with newfound haste, going east and into the Old Forest, north of the Barrow Downs.

As they passed the first trees, the elves began to feel less weary. "This place," said Thráion, "it is like your house, it seems partly disconnected from the world." Alatar nodded thoughtfully. "A powerful spirit dwells here," the wizard whispered, "perhaps more powerful than all of Middle-earth: Iarwain Ben-adar, in your tongue." The elves looked astonished. "It cannot be," murmured Síldir, "do you mean The One?" The wizard looked at her stupidly. "Of course not," he answered, "The One does not avail itself to beings of our stature." Thráion surpressed a laugh, and Síldir eyed the elf with a disapproving look. "No," continued Alatar softly, navigating the many twisting and strange paths of the Old Forest, "we go to see the most enigmatic figure in all of Middle-earth, do not let his songs and charms bewilder you!" Without warning, they happened upon clearing in the forest.

There, in the middling of the clearing, was the most welcoming house they had ever layed there eyes upon, even as long as their lives had been. Everything about it was warm, peaceful, and calming. A delightful river ran by it, and there was a great tree with many fruits in the thick grass around it, where all of the most beautiful flowers grew. Yet, there was something wild about the scenery as well, as if no man had stepped foot here in any of the ages. They saw the smoke coming from the chimney, and then the door opened, and a low, well-fed figure greeted them, a pipe in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other.

His clothes were as colorful as the scenery around him. He wore a blue jacket, yellow boots, red shirt, and an old battered hat, surmounted by a feather which reflected the sunlight like a rainbow. He looked old, with a wrinkled and ruddy, but kind face. Yet, his bright blue eyes shone with youth and vigour through large round glasses, and he seemed to have a certain lightness in his step. He seemed like a man with not a care in the world, filled only with songs and merryness. When he spoke, his voice was like birdsong, like the whispering of a river, and yet also, the rumbling of the earth and clashing of stones and thunder. Indeed, there was a strange power in his voice, but above all else, it sounded kind and wise. "Gandalf?" He asked. "Since when do you wear blue robes? And who is that by your side, those elves?" Alatar bowed deeply, and motioned the elves to do the same. "You mistake me for another of my order," said the wizard, "I am afraid Gandalf left these shores long ago. At my side is Síril and Thráion, of River and Stiff Grass." The elves bowed too. The colorfully clad man went closer than, and adjusted his glasses. "Ah," he said, "of course. I had almost forgotten I spoke with him before he left, yet it feels quite recent, or are my clocks broken?" The small man stroked his bristling brown beard and tapped his foot. "Now I remember," he said suddenly, as if interrupting his own thoughts, "you are the ones he told me would come. One of the blue, though he did not say which of them, and two elves sent back from sea, though he did not mention your names. All is as he foretold then, equally vague and correct, and good is that. Come now, drink tea, eat cake, and sing songs with Old Tom Bombadil, Oldest and Fatherless."

They spent many days inside Tom Bombadil's house, in a daze almost, completely forgetting why they had come or what had troubled them. For all their tasks and quests and other such things seemed like insignificant nonsense now. Even Alatar had forgotten his own warning, and he sank so deeply into a chair by the fire that the two elves thought they had become one. "Do not come between a wizard and his chair!" Laughed Tom Bombadil, and sang of wild trees and sparkling rivers, and how to sit in them. Everything about the man was odd, almost uncanny, thought the elves, yet he put a a feeling in them, a glowing, warming aura, like they had not felt since they dwelt last in Valinor, which seemed ages ago now. At Tom Bombadil's advise, they went outside and walked through the Old Forest, and they felt as young elves again. As night drew near, the elves decided to sleep outside for they loved the trees there so, even though they were wild at heart.

"Now then," said Tom, putting another log on the fire, and at the same time interrupting his own song, "why have you come to visit Old Tom Bombadil?" The blue wizard woke in his chair then. "How long have we stayed here?" He asked first, and very impatiently. "About three or four days," said Tom, "though the days are both shortening and lengthening, and soon day and night shall become one, at this rate." The wizard sank back in his chair, and a fog seemed lifted from his mind and some weight on his shoulders seemed lessened, and then he rememberd why they had come. "You remind me much of Gandalf," said Tom Bombadil, and a strange light shone in his eyes. "But there is a striking difference, for when he came to see me, he was clearly done with his quest, he felt complete in his being, and was in truth only here to have a friendly, long chat and maybe hint at some things in the far future and such, like your coming." Alatar didn't comment on this, but rather rose in his chair, and then, seeing the green robes of Thráion, took them and found the wooden locket with three of the seeds in them.

He presented the seeds to Tom Bombadil, though cautiously, and with a firm grip around the opened locket. Tom looked at them, and then snapped the greying and darkening one out, too fast for Alatar to react. "This one is not doing too well," he said softly, caressing the seed, and his merryness and warmness withered as he studied it, and the house began to chill and feel unwelcome to Alatar, and the wizard had to summon in him a great will to remain standing. "These seeds are me, they are part of me," said Tom, his voice primal and ancient, "as I am part of the world. These are the seeds of Eä, and we are not complete without one another, the world, the seeds, and I. What has happened to this one? Why has it not been planted? It is dying!" The last words came as a wave of power over Alatar, and he faltered backwards, and crashed into the table behind him, chest heaving, and voice weak with lack of breath. "Please," he whispered, "I am too weary."

Tom threw his head backwards then, as if he had not been aware that he had shouted. Slowly, the warm, heartening and friendly atmosphere returned back to the house. "I am sorry," he said, and his cheeks reddened as both shame and sympathy washed over it, and then all emotion seemed drained from his face afterwards. "My domain here is not extensive, but I have power over all that is here, even all of you, if I wished it, but seldom does such things enter my mind. It is not like me to lose my temper, but this seed," and he was unable to mask the shaking in his hand holding it, "why is it dying?" Alatar explained then, of the events at the Lake of Evendim, and how he and Pallando had failed at their task. Tears came into the wizard's eyes as he spoke, for suddenly Síldil's question at Fornost made him doubt himself, and all he had done in all his long lived life. He felt weak, powerless, confused, and he was barely able to stop himself from falling over. His will remained steadfast, however, as did his legs.

Tom Bombadil looked at him with pity then, but also with respect, for he saw all that Alatar had done in his life, what he had been given and denied, and some of what he had yet to do, and then he smiled. "The Ainur have not been kind to you," he whispered, and gently seated the old wizard in the chair by the fire. "It is difficult for them to sympathize with other beings, when all they deign evil and cruel in creation manifested itself first in this world, even though it was one of their own who began the twisting of the song. In the end, they will know why it was so, but until then, the living will feel the pressure of their laws, and bear the responsibilities for the breaking of them." Tom Bombadil sat down too, and he felt weary, an entirely new feeling to him.

"Who are you, truly?" Asked Alatar, after recovering himself. "I am," said Tom Bombadil, "that is what I told Gandalf, and Frodo, and the few others who came here in their time." The wizard pondered this for a long time, but he did not understand the meaning. They smoked pipe in silence for some time then, each very slightly uncomfortable with the other, for they had bared their souls to one another too sudden. Then Tom Bombadil sighed, and spoke freely. "Eldest, that is why am. Oldest and Fatherless. I am this old forest, this land, this continent, and these shores, and I remember the First, Second and Adopted Children waking here, and Melkor climbing over the Walls of Night and hiding in the north when he returned after being banished during my shaping. Yet I also remember my shaping, which Melkor scarred and unwrought even then, so I must be older than which I said I am, perhaps I am Arda itself then, yet I am distinct from all of it, for while I feel bound to it, I do not always share its pain, but sometimes I do, like now, and I feel it heavily. I know, it is no answer, but I simply am, and there are no others like me. I know very well the meaning of this seed, and I will not suffer the new shaping disturbed as it was before, unless it is for a very good reason." Alatar looked at him strangely then.

"Melkor is not the name for evil," said Tom in an odd tone, "but He Who Arises in Might. He is the primordial source for evil, but, as he was made by Eru, the true source of good, then evil must come from good, and the Dark Lord must be an extension of its will, and The Creator is infinte in might and wisdom, and so I ask you, who are we to oppose The One?" Alatar sat in silence. He could not answer such a question. "But we are Eru's will too," winked Tom Bombadil, "and evil and good clash against each other to make something more beautiful and majestic than any willpowers who coud only agree. I am a shard of Eru's will, and now I will leave my home in the Old Forest and aid you, for such power that is in this earth is mine to wield, and I will not allow it to be tainted for the new making, for I too shall arise in might, to destroy, banish or unmake that which would stop the seeding of Middle-earth."

The day after, the elves came back from their journeying admist the trees, and they noticed the changed relationship between Alatar and Tom Bombadil, but said nothing of it. Tom Bombadil took Síldil with him then, following secret paths along the river, to meet with his wife, Goldberry, who was also a Daughter of the River, but of a different kind. What they talked of there no one but they will ever know, but when they returned to the others by the house, Síldil looked to Tom Bombadil like a father, and afterwards she eyed Thárion longingly. "Many things blossom by this house," whispered Alatar, as he smelled one of the flowers. They gathered some things from the house, and then the four went on their way. They decided to head straight for the lake with their new ally, and head to Amon Sûl to meet with the others after.

Tom Bombadil sang and skipped along them, all the way to the edge of the Old Forest. As he took the final step outside, the entire forest vanished before their eyes. All that was left was the river. The elves looked saddened by this, but Tom Bombadil smiled and sang to them, and there was an excitedness in his voice, in looking to new things, and turning his back to old things, though he stared at the river for some time before they went further. They travelled straight north, and with frightening speed they reached the southside of the Hills of Evendim, Tom Bombadil seemingly ignoring distances and using shortcuts which didn't make sense to them.


End file.
